Ghosts of the Past
by mystolenthunder
Summary: John is  finally  coming to terms with Sherlock but could an old friend from the detective's past ruin everything beyond repair?  Note: Original major character. You've been warned.
1. Introduction

_**Well oh dear. If you're reading this it looks like you've happened upon my poor little fic. God help you. Though it doesn't show it on this  
>account...I've written a bit before this so you know...try to enjoy!<br>This is just the sort of...introductory chapter. Please do review!  
>Thank you again for reading and enjoy the show. <strong>_

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><p>Life in the flat of 221B Baker Street was often full of strange and wonderful adventures both big and small for Doctor John Watson. It seemed like, with each passing day, he would evade death at least four times before tea. Criminals set a bounty over his head (along with, of course, his brilliant flatmate's) and surprises with no longer unexpected yet Sherlock still found small ways to shock the poor army doctor; good or bad, well, that's hard to say.<p>

Much to John's distaste, he had grown rather fond of that brilliant, brilliant man yet he scarcely dared to show it. He and Sarah were in a rather idyllic relationship as it was based more on companionship and emotional satisfaction as opposed to attraction and physical acts. He was determined not to let himself fall for Sherlock because, much to his chagrin, he knew Sherlock was _physically incapable_of reciprocating any such feeling towards him. It seemed as though that was all going to crumble before his eyes in the pool, facing the dastardly Moriarty but, alas, he kept his composure (like always) and sometimes, though he kept this to himself, he longed for a small glimmer of hope in the case that Sherlock was, somehow, a normal human being.

One tender June morning, John awoke to the sound of songbirds atwitter in the trees and the rustling of Sherlock's morning activities in the rooms below. Just as any other morning, he got himself out of bed and washed up, made himself up for the day and, still very tired, walked down the stairs with a stretch and a yawn. It was just after nine on a Saturday morning, a time many would consider sleeping in. This, however, was not the case if you managed to find your way back to your bed only four hours prior after a long night of chasing around a notorious criminal. Sherlock had something sizzling in a frying pan and nodded to John, implying his good morning.

"I'm going to assume you have a few eyeballs in that pan," John said, getting a jar of jam from the cupboard. "Just make sure to keep it away from the pans we, excuse me, _I_ actually cook with." No response. "Sherlock." Still nothing. "_SHERLOCK._"

In one smooth turn the handsome consulting detective flaunted a pan filled not with human body parts but fluffy scrambled eggs. To many, this wouldn't be shocking but, if you couldn't already tell, the norm of the masses didn't operate along the same parameters as the goings on in that flat. "Look. Eggs. From a chicken, I assure you. You _just might_want to close your jaw. You don't want any flies nesting in there." Sherlock smirked with a hint of pride in his eye and then began to plate the eggs (John now realized they smelled absolutely divine) onto a large dinner plate. He garnished the dish with two triangles of buttered toast and sat down opposite of John.

"Sherlock…" John began, taking a deep breath. "You _never_ eat. I've lived with you for seven months and not once have I seen you eat a normal meal." He gulped down a swig of tea and made an even more startling revelation. "_Bloody hell_. Sherlock," Sherlock arched his eyebrow made a 'Hrm?' noise in his throat, waiting for his friend to finish. "The table. It's _clean_. We're eating at the breakfast table."

"Indeed we are." Sherlock responded flatly, the corner of his mouth still upturned as he bit into a forkful of egg. "You do realize that you normally eat at tables and, well, at a dinner table you eat dinner so it would only be logical for breakfast to be eaten at…"

"Sherlock." John's steely eyes tried, apparently unsuccessfully, to pierce the man opposite of him. "Are you alright? Did you go to sleep last night? Are you sick? Do you want something from me? Is this just a bribe?"

"_Nonsense!_" Sherlock said, laughing to himself. "If I wanted something from you there are much easier ways to get it…shall I list them?" John stared blankly at him and bit into his toast, not breaking eye contact. "Well…I guess not." Sherlock had cleaned the plate in a matter of minutes and placed it into the sink where he proceeded (much to the horror of his beloved friend) to thoroughly clean and put away what he used to prepare his breakfast. He was still slightly smiling and it was worrying John (probably less than it should have).

"Sherlock. I want an answer. Right now." The small man tried to reach eye level but, alas, Sherlock had a good six inches on him vertically and, without the aid of a stepping stool, would remain that way. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stepped away. John blocked his path. In a stern and motherly tone, he demanded. "_Now_."

Sherlock sighed, long and heavy. "I can't, per say, _tell_ you but I can show you, John." Sherlock grabbed one of the several laptop computers and sat cross-legged in his favorite chair. He was soon to his email account and opened up one, still saved as **new**in the folder. Sherlock turned the computer's screen away from him and placed it in John's lap. Then, he began to narrate, word for word, the message up on the screen

"_Dearest Sherlock,_

I'm afraid the time between our last visit and now is growing alarmingly long. How I long for the buzz of London once again. America is simply dreadful compared to there. I wanted to know if you'd ever consider me popping by for a visit in the near future. I do miss seeing your face. After all that we've been through together I can't help but feel as if something inside me is gone when you're not around. (Mister don't you

_**dare**__ take that the wrong way like I know you will)  
><em>_I'm sad to say a few months ago dad passed away. The chapter of this book of my life is closed and the work I left my beloved home is now done. Though it has been stressful for the past few years I've thought of you often and cherish the letters and gifts you've sent my way. Though what I am afraid the one thing that doesn't travel by mail or over the web is the wonderful feel of your arms around me. _

_I hope since I've last saw you you've managed to keep yourself out of trouble without me. I know how you get when you have no one there for you to depend on. Write back as soon as you can. My affection knows no bounds…__**but**__my patience does._

Tell Mycie I say hello and I hope to see you soon.

Forever yours,  
>Charlotte Waters"<p>

John looked up from the screen into the elated face of Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock," He said, trying to find any way to put all of this together. "Is she your _sister_ or something? Like an adopted sister? A sister in law? Is Mycroft married? Is Mycroft married to _her_? Is she in _love_ with you? And most importantly," He hesitated, seeing the look of apprehension in his friend's eyes, much like a child looks to their parents in sharing a television show which they love with them. "Why the _hell_do you care so much about her visiting that you cleaned the bloody apartment and started to eat again? I'm…I'm truly at a loss, Sherlock."

Without uttering another word, Sherlock typed in a name into the computer's search bar and brought up a file. He clicked on a picture and what seemed to be a warm smile crept upon his face. He placed the computer back into the lap of the army doctor he had grown so fond of and waited for his reaction. When none came, he sighed and looked over, not to John, but to gaze upon the picture.

"This, John" Sherlock said carefully. "This is Charlotte Waters." On screen was a picture of a much younger Sherlock, staring up to a camera, with a young woman nuzzled up against him. They seemed to be close in age and_ very_happy to be with one another. "That, of course, is I, seven years ago when I had just turned twenty. She was nearly the same age then. Only a month older than her I am." John continued to stare at the woman looking fondly at Sherlock on the computer screen. Sherlock's voice was warm and reflective and he was simply unable to control his smile. "Lovely, isn't she?"

John barely heard what Sherlock was saying while he focused on the woman in the picture. She had rich milk chocolate brown hair with golden swirls dancing in the breeze. Her eyes were an alarming shade of deep blue; the opposite of the spectrum of Sherlock's steel grey eyes. Her skin was creamy and a very pale white though the apples of her cheeks were rosy as they sat atop a shining smile. All in all, the woman was absolutely stunning and John would not be surprised if she was stopped daily for someone must have thought, at least once in her life, that she was a model in some glamorous magazine. Despite his strong feelings for Sherlock, physically, the woman on screen made his heart go all atwitter and, somehow, he thought he recognized her.

"She's…um…she's…beautiful." Sherlock bit his lower lip in a smile and looked over to John who had only then noticed Sherlock himself was in the picture. Besides his apparent youth in the picture he seemed...different. He was _smiling _and his eyes were filled with such a joy he could scarcely believe he was the same stoic man who sat beside him. He never once had seen him look like that before, not for anyone or not for anything. John, as what has been the norm of the day thus far, was confused. "But…"

"She's coming in a week, John." Sherlock said, still trying to repress a smile. "She hates to see me so thin so, for her, I'll eat and I had the strangest feeling that a woman like her wouldn't appreciate cow stomachs in the crisper drawer in our fridge." Sherlock paused and hesitated for a moment. "I…I hope you don't mind…"

"No, no, not at all." John had uttered the words before he suddenly gasped. "_Sherlock._Did you honestly just ask if…but…"

"John." Sherlock said, his voice condescending and flat once again. "I don't know if you've managed to find this in the past few months of you knowing me but I have a rather…what do you people call them, a bad habit of being what most call 'impolite'. I…I figured if I want to seem normal to Charlotte I may as well start practicing with you." John's heart sunk.

"Oh…" He trailed off. "Well…I'll get started in the kitchen." Sherlock nodded and grinned a bit. As he got up, he turned to Sherlock, dreading the next answer.

"Wait one more thing." He said with slight apprehension. "Where is Charlotte going to be sleeping? I suppose I could give up my bed for a bit if it made you and her happy." Sherlock looked confusedly at his flatmate.

"I can assure you that won't be necessary."  
>It felt like someone had just ripped out John's heart and ate it in front of him, promptly spitting it out and mashing it into the floorboards with a steel toed boot. "Oh." He said, disappearing into the kitchen.<p>

"John." He said, strained as his flatmate had ever heard him. "Thank…you…"

The feigned emotion in Sherlock's voice caused rage to swell within John and was about to let leash the wrath of hell upon that man but, thankfully, he caught himself just in time. He figured that if Sherlock was doing this for her, a few things were bound to stick after she was gone and (though he hoped yet would never say) long forgotten. This was the moment he started to grudge against Charlotte who was, by no means, a threatening person from what he had seen. She was beautiful and full of joy and seemed to have a positive effect on the most emotionally dumb man John had ever encountered. He tried to rationalize it as the fact that she seemed a better care taker for his dearest friend but he could not for deep in the pit of his blackening heart, he knew it was the simple fact that, no matter how hard he may try, John Watson would never amount to whatever Charlotte Waters seemed to be.


	2. Absolutely Brilliant

**_Oh dear. You're back for chapter two. All FIVE THOUSAND WORDS OF IT.  
>Yes...this is very long. The majority of which is a few flashbacks. Little Sherlock is involved...awww<br>Anyways...please read, review and please do enjoy! _**

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><p>"Sherlock." John called from the upstairs and, at no great surprise, was met with no answer. "We're out of bowl cleaner. <em>Sherlock!<em>" Nothing. John, the good man he was, snapped off his yellow rubber gloves and flicked them into the nearby sink and, though slightly put off, walked down the stairs with no great bone to pick with Sherlock. Well…that was until he happened upon his friend sitting on the sofa with his laptop, staring intently on what he could only assume was his email inbox.

"John. You're better with, er, people, women, whatever, how do I respond to a simple message just saying 'can't wait'? Is there a proper response? Does it not warrant one?" John didn't answer and stood, arms crossed, before Sherlock. With slight desperation in his voice, he urged his friend to answer him once again. "John, did I do something _wrong?_"

To John, he sounded like a small child, left alone in a shop, desperate to find his mother. "Sherlock." He sighed. "I don't think there's much there to respond to. I'm sure no answer is perfectly fine. We are out of bowl cleaner though…" Sherlock ignored John's later statement and nodded to him, his eyes flicking down to a chair nearby. "You know…I've been cleaning for four days straight and I have not one thing I know about this Charlotte girl except a couple years ago she was pretty and you miss her." John crossed his arms despondently. "Care to enlighten me on the story?"  
>"Well…" Sherlock said, resting his feet up on the other side of the sofa. "I'm afraid it's a rather long story to be told from beginning to end and, honestly, I'm not sure if it makes sense without starting it from the beginning."<br>"Well _why don't you just start it from the beginning then?_" John snapped, his tone stressed and bitter. "It's nearly seven now and I'm sure the flat has been cleaned floor to ceiling…twice. Besides," John smirked. "It's better than watching tele isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed, defeated and, secretly, happy he had this to share with John. "Fine. I'll tell you the story, the _whole_ story." He paused. "But...I won't be going back and explain anything you don't understand. You can get your answers from her. She was always the better story teller anyways…" Sherlock smiled again to himself, igniting the furious strings of John's heart. "Once, a very long time ago, when I was a small child, only eight years old, a new family moved in across the street…"

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><p>Audrey Holmes was always aware her son's were….<em>different<em> but even by the family's high standards of abnormality, her youngest son had taken the cake. When most boys his age were off eating dirt or making friends and doing things little boys should do, Sherlock would sit at home, often in the dark, with only a torch in hand and read books whenever he could. Of course, these weren't fantasy books. To him they were just _dull_. No no, he was reading _important_ works he had found in his father's library. His father, though an intellectual, often favored Mycroft's easy charm and athletic ambitions instead of his much smaller son's dramatic abnormalities. His wife had always had a softer spot in her heart for little Sherlock as it really, most of the time, didn't seem his fault that children, teachers, animals and various electronic devices seemed to have something dead set against him. In eight years he had not made one friend.

Well…that was until today.

"Sherlock dear, look, that's the new family in the neighborhood. They just bought the old Smiths' place and are finally moving in. Isn't that exciting?" Sherlock yawned and silently judged his mothers unwarranted enthusiasm. "Look there's a little girl your age over there, why don't you go say hi?"

Sherlock looked up from his book of ancient texts and arched his left eyebrow knowingly at his mother. "Mummy, you _do_ know what will happen if I even get ten meters away from them." He said, though his tone was knowing and far beyond his years, his voice squeaked like those of all 'normal' little boys his age. "I'm sure that little girl will have already heard I'm a raving lunatic by now and will run, screaming in the other direction." The mother's heart broke for her small son for she knew full well he was absolutely right. Sherlock gave a tiny smirk and became absorbed in his book once again.

To the great surprise of Audrey Holmes, the family she had just mentioned moments before were now walking over to her porch. The man was not all that tall and had shining copper hair while his wife was quite short with dark brown hair and a rose in her cheeks. They were middle aged and seemed to be older than Audrey and her husband yet they seemed so youthful in the look of absolute bliss on their faces.

"Hello." Said the man, his tone warm and happy. Audrey greeted the two and smiled and he began again. "I'm Henry, Henry Waters. This is my wife, Rachel" The woman smiled and mouthed a hello. "And…this our daughter, Charlotte." A girl, small for her age, stepped out from behind her parents and looked squarely at Sherlock. "She's only eight now and, well, I'm afraid we don't _quite_ trust her alone yet so we were wondering, seeing you have a son and all, if you wouldn't mind watching her for just an hour while we get some more things from storage?"

The native woman smiled and stood up from her porch step. "She's always welcome here." She met both of their hands in a handshake. "We're the Holmes'. I'm Audrey and my husband is James, off somewhere with our oldest son, Mycroft. This, right here, is little Sherlock." She said, affectionately ruffling her son's dark, curly locks.

"Not. Little." He huffed quietly, his eyes still glued on his book.

"Thank you so, so much, Audrey." Rachel said and then bent down to her daughter's level. "Dad and I will be back real soon, alright sweetie?" She nodded and hugged her mom and dad and watched them (still confused with the change in driving) pull out onto the street and drive off to where they only knew.

"Lovely to meet you, Charlotte. My what a pretty name." Mrs. Holmes said warmly, hoping Sherlock would take note. The little girl stuck out her hand gracefully and began to speak as if she was an adult herself.

"I'm sorry I couldn't introduce myself, Mrs. Holmes, my parents are always like that." She giggled. "So very nice to meet you both." Sherlock avoided looking at her hoping that if he didn't move she wouldn't see him and would leave him to his peace. Audrey was about to speak again but she heard the kitchen timer ring, calling her to finish the special dinner she was making for Mycroft. The two were shooed into the backyard and, once his mother was out of sight, Sherlock finally started to speak.

"You lot." Sherlock said with slight condescension in his voice. "You sound funny. You must be Americans." Charlotte smiled and nodded. "There's a city in America named Charlotte, you know but I doubt you're from there. You sound like the people from all the shows mummy and daddy watch from…the Northern part of the country?" Charlotte nodded again. "You came from _New_ England just to come to _England_?" She nodded cheerfully once more. "Strange." He observed. "You came to a place that was old and probably not as good as where you came from. Odd."

"You're name is quite strange." She said not bothered by his comments. "I doubt there are any cities named _Sherlock_." She gibed. He immediately looked annoyed started to walk away to a place where he could continue reading in peace. She quickly apologized. "I rather like it though. It sounds…oh I don't know, just, you sound like you should be in one of those books from a long time ago. Your name sounds like…history." He was not aware how a name could encompass every point the human race had experienced up until this point but, for once, he didn't care. The girl, much to his surprise, did not hate him.

"Do you like books?" He asked, sounding more enthused than before. She nodded excitedly. "My room is full of books. Would you like to see them?" She nodded again and put out her hand. Sherlock just stared and raised his eyebrow. He did not understand the point of such a gesture.

"You're _supposed_ to take it." She said, laughing to herself. "I'm going to a place I've never been before. I could get lost. But you, I bet you know every little corner of this house, don't you? You need to hold my hand because you're my guide. That's what people do."

Against most every instinct he ever possessed, Sherlock grabbed the girl's hand and realized how much taller he was than her. She was thin but not as thin as he (which, he deduced, made sense figuring that she actually ate of her own will in the past eight years). The two proceeded to spend what seemed like forever in his room looking at books with no pictures which, they had found, were both their favorite kind. All too quickly, dinner was served and Charlotte readily began eating the Shepherd's pie set before her. She thanked her gracious host profusely but stopped to ask Sherlock a question.

"Why aren't you eating?" She had noticed his plate was untouched.

"I don't like eating." He replied, though he thought the answer seemed too simple.

"Well mommy says you should always eat what's put in front of you because some little kid far far away may want that." Before Sherlock could open his mouth, she quickly retorted. "No, you can't _send_ it there. That'd be silly. It'd just get all old and icky." To reasons still unknown to the universe (and much to his mother's delight) Sherlock began to voluntarily eat.

After the Waters' came home and fetched their daughter, little Sherlock gushed to his mummy about how he had finally made a friend and wished her to come over whenever she could. Mycroft would eventually meet her, though he seemed to write her off as some strange little girl who found good company with his _very_ strange little brother, the fifteen year old always seemed to enjoy her being there. Much to the disappointment of Sherlock, the family would fly back every year to visit Charlotte's grandparent's for summer holidays leaving him without a friend for a chunk of the year. To his relief, every year they'd be back once again right before school started up and their friendship continued. This happened regularly up until they were both twelve years old. Then the family was going for summer but, unlike the other times, they wouldn't be coming back.

"Mom says my grampy's really sick so we have to go back and take care of him." Charlotte said, her large blue eyes swelling with tears. Sherlock didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. He just got very close to her and hugged her very hard and very long. He and his mummy went to the airport with them to wave them goodbye and, while they were walking back to the car, he wanted to cry, he _needed _to cry but, for some reason, he couldn't.

The next few years were absolute hell for poor Sherlock. He was growing now and changing, as all boys will do and soon he was an awkward preteen and, eventually, an equally awkward teenager. Mycroft was never so gangly and angsty at that age but, then again, he never had much of a reason. Mycroft was an athlete with dashing good looks and charm that made him friends with nearly everyone; Sherlock was the antithesis. His peers constantly picked on him for his size or his strength or his luck with making friends. This was when it started. This is when he started to feel _nothing_. Despite all of this he was the head of his class every year without fail but Sherlock found now pride and joy in it. Instead he spent most of his time in his room, alone, playing the violin to himself desperately trying to keep his mind healthy. His family tried to help him but they were always just barked at and sent away, often leaving several family members in tears. Sherlock did not care. He did not care about a thing in the world except his mind. He now no longer just felt "nothing" but he didn't feel anything at all.

Audrey, obviously worried that something could go horribly, horribly wrong, brought him to see a psychologist. She was taken aside and was assured that, in a few day's time, she would get a phone call when the results on his analysis were in. While she was desperately waiting for this call, she scarcely left the phone's side. At one point in this stretch of time, she did get a phone call but it was not from anyone knowing anything about Sherlock's condition, well, looking back that was negotiable, but it was the girl who was always welcomed at her home. It was Charlotte, the temporary Holmes.

It was explained to Audrey that, although Henry and Rachel wished to come back, they had to stay, tending their ailing parents. This left poor Charlotte stuck in a home surrounded by death and sadness. They inquired if the Holmes' had a spare bedroom for Charlotte to stay so she could attend school once more in England, a place she loved more than anywhere in the world. The family, of course, accepted the offer and soon after Charlotte turned sixteen, she arrived back to a place she already knew as home.

No one had told Mycroft who was now in his early twenties and just out of university and already making a name for himself in the world. Sherlock wasn't informed either, despite several attempts to tell him through his locked door and never-ending onslaught of strange, sad artists he had found comfort in listening to.

There was a room in the attic of the old family house where a bed, a table, a dresser and a few other things could fit. This became Charlotte's new home. There was plenty of sunlight in the small room (which she, in no doubt, enjoyed more than most) and, quite often, a cool breeze would drift through. Mycroft walked into his kitchen to find the girl there and immediately offered he bring her things upstairs for her. The little girl he had always found interesting was now sixteen and, to him, she was a woman. To her he was no man but a fool. She shooed off the sudden barrage of affection he had for her, leaving him down but most certainly not defeated. Once most of her things were settled in place and her clothes were neatly put away, she lay on the bed, her head resting on her stretching arms and she closed her eyes.  
>Sherlock, unaware of this, crept upstairs and found her there and froze, unable to believe that she was the same girl he had seen years ago. It did not take him long in the months before someone was coming to stay but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine her there, now a permanent resident in their home. His mind started to throb, wondering if she had received the countless letters he sent her and, if she did, if she read them fondly or if she showed them to her friends, mocking the poor boy from across the pond.<p>

She opened her eyes as he reached the top of the ladder up to her loft and sat up, looking squarely at him, just as the day they first met. He had to blink a few times. It was indeed the same girl he had seen years before but, suddenly, he felt something. He felt terrified and happy and self conscious and curious and hopeless and every other thing to pass through a boy's mind. He started to observe her, hoping he wasn't acting rude just staring but, for a little while, he couldn't help it.

Her skin was clear and smooth and bright white while his was pallid with a few blemishes on his face. Her chestnut curls danced around her while his hair, still wet from taking a shower, stuck to his head. She was short but healthy, in shape but with curves he'd only seen in anatomy text books while he was awkward, gangly and altogether sickly looking. She was the epitome of perfection in his eyes and felt that he must've disappointed her. If she was, she didn't let on.

She stood up from the bed, her dress, cotton, short, and summery settled as she opened out her arms to hug him. He hit her like a ton of bricks, falling into her embrace with such force he thought he might have broken her like a china doll. She brushed a curl out of his face and looked into his eyes, beaming. "You lot, you're all so different." She said, resting her head on his shoulder. He felt his entire body shaking as his arms slipped around her small waist. "I kept every one of your letters, you know. They're all back home in a box with a big 'S' on it." He pulled her closer to him. He was the one ready to break now. "You know, I missed you the most." He swallowed hard. "And this, well, this I missed the most of all." She felt a few tears fall down her face, only then realizing how much she had missed the strange boy from her past and, somehow, she knew he felt the same.

"Charlotte…I…I missed you more than I could ever tell you…" Sherlock trailed off as she stammered backwards. "Oh…oh God. What? What did I do?" A pang of panic swept over his entire body. He felt each of his hairs raise on edge.

"Your…your voice." She said, then laughing to herself. "It's so…_deep!_" He breathed a sigh of relief as she fell back onto her bed, her long legs flying up in the air and landing with a thud. "Well…c'mon. Get over here! We have about four years to catch up on." She said, patting the bed next to her. With great hesitation, he lied down on the bed and looked over at her.

"Charlotte…you're…so…"

"Different?" She laughed. "I noticed. It's amazing what a few years, a bit of makeup and some clothes can do for a girl."

"…_beautiful_." He stammered out. She looked over to him and ran two of her fingers down his jawbone. He felt her graze each blemish on his face, filing him with such self loathing he could nearly scream. He touched his face where her fingers ran over it. "I…I'm sorry…I wish I…I wish I could've been better for you…I…" Her eyes met his and she gave him a look telling him to shut his mouth and began to smile. "I mean…I…"

"I'm so happy to see you're doing well." She cooed as she played with a dark curl off the side of his face.

"What constitutes as _well_ over there in America?" He retorted bitterly. He felt his hands fly to his mouth but, before he could correct himself, she sighed and began to speak again.

"Sherlock. You're _alive_. I've seen more death in the past few months that some see in their lives. You're still breathing and your heart is still beating. You're doing quite well. Two for two actually. Congratulations on that one."

The two went quiet for a few moments. Sherlock kept his eyes transfixed on hers. His hands were still trembling slightly and he felt her slide one of hers onto one of his and hold it tight. A tender touch was something so absolutely alien to Sherlock he didn't know how to react. He could've spent as long as she would let him do this, just be next to her and feel safe but he knew she had to know.

"Charlotte, I." He stopped and swallowed hard. His body started to shake slightly and he looked to be in some sort of pain. He felt her grip tighten and he tightened his in response. He never knew how hard it would be to utter these words. These words had changed his life forever. These words gave those who hated him a reason to. "Charlotte…I…I'm a sociopath." She seemed unphased. "You know what that means, don't you?"

"I'm going to go into psychology, of course I know what it means." She still looked calm.

"Charlotte…I'm _dangerous_. That's what they told me. I don't have emotion. I can't feel remorse. I…I can't feel. Or I think I can't. I don't know which."

"That's _all_ they said?" She said back knowingly.

"They said something…high functioning…some drabble like that to make me feel better about my eventual lock up in the crazy house."

"What's your IQ again?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. "…It's 200…why?"

"Sherlock. You're _fine_." It was obvious he didn't believe her. "You're considered a sociopath because you're shy. _Very_ shy. You're also incredibly smart and, as you may well know, the eternal struggle is emotion versus logic. With a mind like yours, you simply don't _rationalize_ logic. You're not going to murder anyone soon…I hope ever actually. You will, however, need to find yourself a healthy outlet for your emotions."

He blinked. He was amazed and it was _very_ hard to amaze Sherlock Holmes. "You know…" He confessed quietly. "I've…I've never kissed before…" He turned an alarming shade of crimson. "You think that that might've hurt me menta…" He didn't finish. His oldest friend, his nearest friend, his dearest friend, his _only_ friend was now latched onto him. He did not have the slightest idea what to do and let the only human being he found comfort in carry on. She pulled away and he remained the same color. "I…" He couldn't think. He didn't know how to process it. He felt the endorphins kick into his brain and, for the first time in four years, he was happy.

In the next few months Charlotte attended the same school Sherlock did and was doing quite well in her classes. People, not surprisingly, tended to adore her. She was often a tutor in the sciences for the other students which, on occasion, meant a few people would come home of the Holmes' to study. Though many didn't understand why she spent any time at all with Sherlock she accepted it and moved on. Luckily for him, most were more afraid to get on her bad side than eager to insult Sherlock.

A boy in their class, Tim, was not a great genius or a star athlete but he was smart and kind enough to earn the position of "friend" from Charlotte; unknown to her, this made Sherlock _hate_ him. One night, Audrey and James went out to attend a benefit for a local university and they wouldn't be home until much later in the night. Tim had come home with Charlotte and Sherlock that night and, much to the distaste of Sherlock, accompanied her up to her room. He sat with his violin and began to play, trying to take his mind off of the so called "tutoring" going on in the room above him. He found it strange when the two didn't come down around dinner time and decided to go upstairs to see them.

To the great misfortune of Sherlock, he walked in on the two snogging and nearly fell down the ladder. Tim gathered his schoolbooks and ran out the front door. Charlotte came down only a few seconds too late before Sherlock had locked himself in his room. She pleaded desperately for him to come out but he was set to stay in there for the remainder of the night. Actually, he anticipated to stay there for the rest of his life.

* * *

><p>"And that, John, is Charlotte Waters." Sherlock said with a tone of finality in his voice.<p>

"Sherlock." John said, disappointed in the abrupt end of the story. "There has to be more. You were only sixteen then and there's a picture of you two three years later. I want the rest of it. _All_ of it."

Sherlock sighed and started again.

* * *

><p>Due to his constant state of insomnia, Sherlock kept a bottle of sleeping pills by his bed at all times. In these particular circumstances, he planned on sleeping for a much longer time than normal. He placed the full bottle on his desk and took out a piece of paper, the same kind of paper he had used to write the countless letters to Charlotte. He thought back to the day she returned. He was now beginning to wonder if it actually happened or if it was the effect of one of his small romps in various "chemical experiments". He wrote down his final words and waited until three in the morning. He was sure that, by this time, Charlotte had gone up to her bedroom and forgotten that he had existed. His hands shaking, he took of the cap of the bottle and poured out dozens of small capsules. Before he decided to swallow the handful that would bring him, finally, to peace, he quietly unlocked his door. In one's final moments you want to give your family as much curtsey as possible when finding your body. Then, he laid down on his bed, pills in one hand, note in the other and threw his head back, forcing the pills down his throat. He looked at the time and tried to figure the moment he would pass on. He went to sleep. What he didn't anticipate was that, what seemed to be an instant later, he had woken up again.<p>

Charlotte knew enough about Sherlock to never leave him alone after he had apparently felt traumatized. She sat outside his door and waited. She saw the hours tick away on the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway and she heard her dear friend scribble on a piece of paper in the room next to her. At one point, around two, she had gotten up and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She returned and waited by his door. The scribbling stopped and she sat up, now on edge from the caffeine. She thought she almost her him sob quietly but she was _sure_ she heard his door unlock. Once she had heard him settle into bed, she cracked open the door and gazed in. Being the intelligent young woman she was and keeping the company of Sherlock Holmes made her extraordinarily observant and she noticed, before anything, that the note she heard him write was not on his desk but, in its place, was an emptied bottle of pills.

Her eyes grew wide and she knew what was trying to be done. In an instant she dashed to his bedside and found his pulse and breathed a sigh of relief but one that did not last for long. She ran out to the kitchen and called emergency services in the local town but she feared they would be too late. Panicking and not knowing what to do she closed her eyes, if even for a second, and tried to regain her composure. Her eyes flew open and she thought of only one thing that, she though, may save her best friend's life. When she was younger, her father showed her a movie called _The Apartment_. It was very old and in black and white and all she really remembered from it was the one thing she figured would be useful. She grabbed a cup, the biggest she could find, and poured the rest of the coffee she had made earlier into it. She rushed into Sherlock's room and sat him up. She slapped him across the face and he opened his eyes, barely conscious. She made him force down the bitter drink until there was no more. Then, for the first time thankful that he barely ate anything at all, she propped him up on her and started to try and walk him around. She did this until a few paramedics came in and, to her great thanks, brought him into what she could only assume was an ambulance. Before she left she called his parents, now sobbing hysterically on the floor and grabbed the note he intended to leave.

She was in the back of the car with him as they desperately tried to save his life. When they assured her he was going to make it at least to the hospital, she started to read the note. She could barely focus but she did see one line that brought her a moment of peace.

"_When whomever does find me and reads this note, I would like to assure them of one thing; I have had intentions to do this for nearly four years now but one thing has kept me sane, if you would like to call sane a relative term. I would like you, reader, to thank the only person who dared look beyond my faults and keep my alive. I would like you to thank Charlotte Waters for all she's done and, perhaps someday you too will thank her when she most certainly changes the world."_

Charlotte didn't stop crying until the doctors had reassured her that he would be fine and well. He was, however, in a slight coma and would need several IV's of different nutrients and medications to bring him back to his old self. Charlotte, in the two days he was there, did not leave his bedside. A young med student did come into the room and tap her on the back of the shoulder.

"Miss? Excuse me…miss?" She turned around. "Would you like anything? Some water or even a bite to eat? The doctors are worried, miss." She nodded no and sighed deeply. "This sounds strange but, would you like a hug, miss?" She looked him squarely in the eyes, just as she had done to Sherlock all those years ago and nodded yes. She was thankful of the small gesture and the student disappeared once again without even asking a name. That moment, she was sure, would live on in both their memories for a long while.

When Sherlock did wake up, he started to apologize to Charlotte and she apologized to him. They both had concluded, after a few moments, they were both being frivolous and decided, though quite gingerly, to hug one another. She couldn't say anything but, somehow, he did.

"I think you have someone to thank." He said to her quietly. She looked confused and he seemed to feign a laugh. "You found my note, didn't you." She nodded, now seated next to him and gripping his hand. "Well you have to thank Charlotte Waters that I'm alive. I told you someday you'd thank her and, well, you never know if you have just changed the world." Charlotte began a new barrage of tears just as Audrey, James and Mycroft came into the room all with their own tears to dry. Charlotte came up to Mycroft and hugged him as hard as she could, something he felt quite proud of. The two would become quite close in years to come, all stemming from that point in time.

* * *

><p>"And," Sherlock began to conclude. "After that she and I were very close for years. Unfortunately, her parents were in a nasty car crash when she was just about to turn twenty and had to return home. Her mother was killed instantly and her father was now severely disabled. She had to take care of him seeing that she was their only child and, as you now know, he has passed away. She managed to make a career of herself despite all of the hardships her life has brought her but, well." He smiled. "Once again, she is indeed coming home."<p>

John looked blankly at Sherlock. "So wait." He looked very confused. "You two…aren't together." Sherlock said or did nothing of indication. "She and Mycroft…?" Still no response. "_Sherlock_!"

"John, I told you." Sherlock said, smirking behind the now opened newspaper before him. "She's the better storyteller. Ask her. It's just a few days away before you get to meet her.

"But…"

"_John_." Sherlock laughed. "How's about dinner? My treat. To…thank you."

John looked suspiciously at Sherlock. "Thanks for what…?"

"Well," Sherlock put down his newspaper. "For cleaning. For sharing a flat with me. For helping me solve crimes. For being _absolutely brilliant._ That's what for." He rose from his seat and put on his blue scarf and long black coat. "Coming?" He questioned, now beaming with a smile.

"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah." John said getting up. Sherlock already left the flat before John could even think. He no longer hated this woman. Well, he tried not to at least but one point wouldn't leave his mind. He brushed it off and put on his coat, now playing back what Sherlock had just said. He knew, this time, he wasn't practicing manners. For the first time since their meeting John knew for a fact Sherlock thought of John what John had thought of him. "Brilliant." He said, locking the door behind him. That dinner was different; Sherlock was at ease and John was positively glowing with happiness. The entire evening and the remainder of the week could be summed up into few words.

_Absolutely brilliant._


	3. Revelation

**_As you continue to read...LOOK HERE SHE IS._**  
><strong><em>Oh so this breaks my heart...most of it...yeah<em>**  
><strong><em>Read, review and enjoy!<em>**

* * *

><p>"John…" Sherlock fretted as he paced around the living room for what must've been the thousandth time that day. "Are you <em>sure<em> that the cupboards are stocked with food and the body parts are…properly relocated?"

"_Yes_, Sherlock." John sat down in his chair. "Now please. Stop worrying. "It's giving me a headache."

"Sherlock, dear!" Mrs. Hudson called from down the stairs. "You're brother's here…should I let him in or tell him you're on a case?"

A small smile crept into the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "No, Mrs. Hudson, let him in. He's welcome here…today." Once Mycroft had arrived up in the flat, their behavior was rather…odd; they seemed to be acting like normal brothers. For the first time since John's involvement with the Holmes', he had never seen to two even try to act civil and here they were, laughing and smiling like they were the best of friends. (Well, 'friend' is a relative term for the likes of Sherlock Holmes)

"So…" Mycroft began as he hung his umbrella from the coat rack by the door. "Any news from her?" Sherlock shook his head. "Well…That _is_ like her. She'll show up when we least expect it."

The two men sat down in the living room; Mycroft in the chair and Sherlock on the side furthest away from him. They politely chatted with one another about work and diet to pass the time…John had never felt like more of an outsider. He decided to retreat up to his room to straighten himself and his surroundings up. Out of boredom, he remade his bed and sat on its edge as he reached for his laptop. He pulled up his blog and opened up a new text post and stared at the screen blankly while his fingers lie motionless on the keyboard. He shut it off and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling blankly and pondering what would happen next. Perhaps he didn't want to be down there to see this homecoming as he didn't want to see the true nature of this visit so soon, but, as a side effect of living with the world's only consulting detective, he was still curious to see what it was like. Much to his luck (or lack of fortune, he couldn't tell which yet), he heard a soft rap on the door.

The two Holmes' boys shot up from their seats and straightened out their shirts and coats, patting down their hair and doing whatever they possibly could to look more presentable than another. Just as the brothers many so often forgot they were, they were standing side by side, bumping one another out of the way like children, fighting for their parent's attention.

"I think they're waiting for you in the living room, dear." Mrs. Hudson said in her normal sweet tone. Her only response was a sweet laugh and assuredly, an equally sugary smile. The flat fell silent all but for the click of the doorknob and the squeak of the hinges; not one person dared to even breathe. John bolted down the steps from his room into the kitchen and peeked out from around the corner of the connecting doorway, trying to let the three have their moment. The door fell wide open and there stood, in the warm glow of the Baker Street lights, was Charlotte Waters.

Inexplicably, she seemed to have grown more beautiful than the last time any of them had seen her (her be it in person or on screen). She was more mature in the way she held herself; her makeup was softer and brought out her features, her hair was longer now and a little lighter around the edges with her skin as ivory as ever; her smile was wide and kind and her eyes were knowing and bright. She drew a breath to speak but let out a small, joyful laugh instead. Finally, she was home.

"You lot!" She called to the two men. "I haven't seen you in _ages_! You're so…old!" She dropped the purse slung from her shoulder and ran to the two men, hugging them both around their necks; their cheeks were now rosy and they began to laugh, apparently it was some inside joke. She was certainly dressed for the conditions of December in London with a long grey pea coat, black gloves and an ivory scarf over a beautiful (but somewhat short) purple dress. She beamed and, in effect, so did the brothers she had come to know so dearly.

Despite knowing her for the same amount of time and well, being family, the two men could not have reacted any more differently:

Charlotte stepped back and made a running jump into Sherlock's arms and wrapped hers around his neck. He held her, above the ground (for she was much shorter than he), around her waist and seemed to swing her back and forth like a ragdoll before putting her down again. They said very little but they both grinned from ear to ear, laughing intermittently and going back to embrace one another again and again. It seemed that Sherlock never wanted to let her go and Charlotte didn't appear to have too many objections to that.

Once she broke free from the ecstatic embrace of Sherlock she moved onto Mycroft and her demeanor changed completely. She stood quite close to him and looked up at his face (like his brother, he was a great deal taller than her too). "Hello." She said, grinning affectionately. He looked at her differently than Sherlock, almost like he was in pain to see her. He seemed to pull her to him very carefully and whispered something into her ear; she answered back to him, standing on the tips of her toes to reach his ear. They both quietly laughed and broke apart. "Lovely to see you again." She said, this time for all to hear.

While Charlotte's attention was _not_ focused on him, Sherlock realized that John was missing from this scene. He caught sight of him peering around the doorway and silently beckoned him over, still in a state of absolute elation. John reluctantly drudged over to the overjoyed scene and remained completely silent, hoping to not be noticed. He absentmindedly cleared his throat and Sherlock looked up at John, nodding for him to speak.

"Um, well," He scratched his left arm anxiously. "Hello there, Charlotte." Her eyes darted from the Holmes boys and stared at John for a moment, the same way she had at Sherlock all those years ago. John stood in uncomfortable silence as she stepped towards him with the most confounded look spread across her face. Sherlock and Mycroft shot each other a meaningful glance; Sherlock's in worry, Mycroft's in amusement. John was about to bark at her what her bloody problem was but, before he had the chance, she started to speak.

"You." She blinked. "You…you were the one." John looked to Sherlock, not entirely certain this woman was able to be classified as 'sane'. Sherlock nodded and arched his eyebrow, bidding him to wait for her to finish before making assumptions. John sighed and waited for her to do _anything_. "In the hospital. You…you were the med student. It was four o' seven in the morning in room fifteen in the intensive care unit. You came in and asked if I wanted anything and hugged me. You were the one I never got to thank…John Watson…"

John looked absolutely horrified and was now half convinced that Charlotte was a long lost American cousin of the Holmes'; no normal human being could have ever remembered that. He stepped back, blinking hard and trying to remember back to the blur that was his early twenties in med school. Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to remember the night instantaneously and looked at one another again in awe of the never endingly astounding woman.

"Wait…" John said, resting one hand up against the wall to support himself. "It was the end of my shift and I hadn't had any coffee…" It was starting to come back. "I was exhausted but I heard you crying in one of the rooms…I figured, if I wanted to serve complete strangers in far off lands, I'd have to start with serving those in need around me…right? There was a suicide attempt and…HOLD ON. WAIT." He shouted. "I knew you all…well, met you all before…but how and…"

"Lovely to see you again, John." Charlotte wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. Much to her benefit, he was only a few inches taller than her as opposed to the massive height difference between herself and her two boys. "I've heard so much about you but never in a million years…" She trailed off and smiled sweetly.

"Well..." Mycroft said, cracking his knuckles. "What a turn of events but I must ask you, Charlotte." She looked past Sherlock directly at his brother. "What are your accommodations for your stay? You know, how long you will be staying, where, etcetera, etcetera."

"Oh…dear." She put her finger to her mouth. "I suppose I don't really…"

"You can stay with me!" Both men shouted simultaneously and then locked on each other in an icy glare.

"Mummy always said you were welcomed at the Holmes'." Sherlock began.

"And we both most certainly still are the Holmes family." Mycroft said, stealing the end of his brother's sentence.

"Seeing that I spent the most time with you," Sherlock interrupted. "I'd be more than happy for you to stay here, Charlotte." He smiled.

"Seeing that _I _have known you just as long _and_ I have more room to stay, I do urge you to stay with me." Mycroft glared at his brother. "I can call right now and you may have your own guest house if you'd like. Just say the word…"

"Mycroft, _please_." Sherlock scoffed. "She was best friend for years on end, you were barely there. I think we know her answer."

"Oh little, Sherlock…"

"Mycroft." Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I'm _taller_ than you."

"Ah, yes, dear brother, but I will _always_ be older." Mycroft smiled slyly.

"But _I'll_ have hair for a few years longer, unlike you." Sherlock sneered. Mycroft's hand darted to the small bald spot on the back of his head and shot a glare to his brother.

"What I was _going_ to say was that, it is true when you were younger I wasn't around much but, well, believe me," He snorted. "I've had the opportunity to see her when were _grownups_. You haven't seen her since you were teenagers. Sherlock got up into Mycroft's face, towering over him, his eyes slit in anger.

"At least _I_ didn't try to make my move on her _five minutes_ before moving back into the country."

"Well _I_ wasn't the one who basically begged her to snog me in the attic, now was I dear brother."

"Oh save it, Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I think we both know who she's going to stay with."

"Now girls, settle down." John chided. Charlotte couldn't help but laugh. "Why don't you just ask _her?_" Charlotte squeezed his forearm in thanks and both brothers looked over at the pair of them, waiting for her response.

"How about I split my time up, you know, fifty-fifty, you know, for a little while." Sherlock looked particularly disappointed. "Then, well, maybe I'll find my own place or I'll start back home again…" Sherlock cut her off as he stepped forward behind her and kissed the top of her head.

"My dear," He sounded much like a jaguar hiding in a cello. "The home of the Holmes' is always your home…" She laughed and turned to face him with a devious little smirk on her face.

"Well, Sherlock," She said, starting to walk towards the door. "Shall we go for a little walk? Six years is an awful lot of catching up to do." Sherlock grabbed for his coat and scarf and looked back at the two remaining men.

"Please, Mycroft, do stay." He smiled playfully. "We won't be _too_ long." With that, the two slipped out the door.

John wanted to kill _**everything**_.

He was absolutely _enraged_ by the fact that she even existed he only wished his tea mug was breathing so he could strangle it to death. He collapsed back into his favorite chair and stared up at the ceiling into nothingness. Mycroft gracefully sat himself on the sofa and stared at John for a few moments. He really didn't know what to say but he figured he should at least attempt to say something.

"You know, she and I, we're a complicated thing."

John halted his stare into the ceiling and locked his eyes on Mycroft. He was more than annoyed but didn't care to show it. "_Well you don't say now do you?_" He snapped. "The whole _damn_ family is complicated with her, eh?" Mycroft sighed.

"John, you don't understand the extent of this all." Mycroft cleared his throat in an attempt to get John to focus back on him. "I could try and explain it if you like…"

"Well _sure_." John was now looking at the remaining Holmes. "I'm in a flat in the middle of London in the middle of a December snowstorm with my flatmate's brother who just _happens_ to be one of the most important men in the country _and_ have information on a strange woman I didn't know existed until a week ago." John sighed. "I'd listen if you told me the story."

"Now John," Mycroft tutted. "No need to get testy."

"Mycroft…" John said through clenched teeth.

"Fine, fine." He said, taking off his gloves and fluffing a pillow behind him on the sofa. "I shall tell you _my_ recounts of Ms. Waters. Do pay attention, Watson." John cringed; he hated being referred by his last name. "It's rather complicated and makes little sense, well, it does to those with a degree of intelligence. Try to keep up."

"I think I can handle it." John grinned in spite. Mycroft sighed again.

"You know that Sherlock met her when he was eight, very good show but, as you know, I'm nearly seven years older than he and was fifteen at the time…To a fifteen year old…things are…different…

A strange little girl was at our home when father and I arrived back from my awards ceremony; I was responsible for taking my school's rugby team to the championships and, thanks to myself, won. Mummy had planned on a special supper for my family and I but when I came home, a strange little girl was sitting in a chair next to my even stranger little brother. I would go into the extent of our rivalry, Sherlock and I, even back then but I fear that would take hours. Everything was a big deal to him and he was _always_ dramatic, well, he really hasn't much changed now has he? It was also a grand occasion for Sherlock to make a friend back then so she was welcomed to the special supper. I spoke to her first then and she answered me as if she were older than I. Funny, really; I thought it was odd at the time but looking back, it just showed the kind of person she was going to be.

I remember her throughout the rest of my adolescence, you know. I remember she attended my graduation of grade twelve along with my family and met me with a grand hug when I came back to my seat. I also remember speaking to her, even when she was just eleven and I was now in Uni, about the wonders of America and how she seldom missed it. She said it was too big for her and like how very _small_ England felt. She opened my eyes, John, to just how small we really are.

Of course, she did leave for a number of years and I went on with my life. Sherlock was now a completely changed human being and I often worried for him. I wondered if she was a good or bad thing for him in his life but, alas, I really just don't care now. I think I sent her a letter once, for her sixteenth birthday, if I do properly recall. Little did I know over those summer holidays she would be back once again.

Sherlock was so absorbed in himself the first day she was back and spent most of it straightening himself up and practicing how to speak to her in mirrors. _I_ on the other hand, wasn't even aware she was coming to live with the family until she returned, once again, the very same day I did. Being the gentleman I am, I took up all of her belongings in boxes and bags up to her loft and helped her set up a few things. She and I, now very much both adults, got along swimmingly.

Of course, I was not attached to any particular woman at the time and a bright, interesting and beautiful woman was now living a few yards above me and I was a recently graduated Uni student. I think I may have insinuated the fact that she wasn't a little girl anymore and she blushed and said she had a policy against dating men over the age of eighteen until she was over the same age. To assure that no one in my family had heard such an argument, we staged it as a match of wills where she barked at me until I left the house for the day. All rather convincing really but it certainly wasn't the end for me.

Now, John, you _do_ have to remember that, despite our polar differences, Sherlock and I are indeed brothers and, on some basic level, we do function in the same way. When she had boyfriends, we were both jealous. I managed my jealousy by steering clear of Charlotte and her beaus together and moving my affections on to different women; Sherlock would emotionally shut down whenever another human being even dared to compromise what…odd little relationship they had.

Obviously, that had resulted in something very traumatic for my family, despite Sherlock reassuring us that it was no fault of Charlotte's that he was planning on killing himself that night. In fact, he told us he was certain that she would save him that night. Sherlock always did see no fault in her and, from what I can tell, she could single handedly end the world and he would blame anyone but her. You know, rather odd the similarities between she and you, John but I digress. His self destructiveness brought her and me closer despite how sick that sounds. Charlotte and I always did get along but, when someone you're both so close with is so very close to nonexistence, well, it brings people together I suppose.

For a stretch there, before Sherlock was considered stable, we all thought we were going to lose him. Charlotte never did leave his bedside but, in the very beginning of the process, he was not always in that bed. I stayed up with her for hours, holding her close and she sobbed into my shoulder. I would stroke her hair and tell her she was absolutely marvelous, just as she remains to be. I told her that, no matter what the outcome, I would always be a rock for her to stand on, even in the harshest of storms. She took it to heart I'm sure.

You know, I've seen her more recently than six years ago. On the many trips I've taken around the world, a few have led me to America and it is indeed a rather large place but I always managed to find time to see her. She was doing quite well actually. She had a steady job she adored and a man totally in love with her, ready to marry her at the drop of a hat. She did, however, still have to care for her father until his death earlier in this year. The last time I saw her, before today, was just around that time. She pulled me aside for a conversation on that trip, one that seemed like the hundreds we'd had in the past only, this time, it was a much more desperate matter.

She, if you hadn't already figured, John, is a wanderer. She loved every place besides the place she was in, no matter where she went. Well, this was except for right here England. She loved the man who loved her well but she knew she couldn't stay with him. She never did forgive herself for not being there when her parents were in that accident and, now, she couldn't stand to be with anyone she met during the play out of her father's decline. She asked me, not for advice, John, but for _help._ The solution seemed clear to me but she went into something not even I ever expected.

She adored her friends and her family back in America and, not surprisingly, they adored her too yet she wanted to escape them all. I told her that she was always welcomed here with open arms; a simple answer to a complex problem I thought. Apparently, I was quite wrong. She, dear John, is a guilt ridden person and I fear that, someday, that may be her downfall. She hated where she was because of her parents but she hated where we were because of Sherlock. Much to my surprise, she had never forgiven herself for what she was still convinced she caused and knew that if she were to move back, she had to drop everything. She told me that there was somewhere in the heart of London, to no fault of her own, she was drawn. I told her that, for once, she must do what was best for her and think of others later. Three months later her father is gone, her would be husband is heartbroken, her family is torn and angry and she is free as a bird and, bringing us back up to date, is now down the street walking around with a ticking time bomb cleverly disguised as my brother.

That woman is the only woman who can hold the interest of…some of the most important men in the country, John. She is brilliant beyond your comprehension and kind beyond all bounds. She's beautiful and loving and all the proper things made for what we can all only assume is the makings of the perfect human being but…I fear for the future. I don't want to see her hurt by Sherlock…again and, strangely enough, I don't want to see him hurt either. I want to protect them both but I…I, well I don't know if I ever can."

John blinked and tried to process all of the information just given to him. Mycroft took out his phone to check the time. It hadn't taken _that_ long but it certainly was a chunk of time his ramblings on had taken up.

"Wait…" John paused. "So…you're in love with her. That's the gist of the story." Mycroft cringed.

"_John_." Mycroft huffed. "I want to see them both happy but…"

"But you can't." John interrupted. "Because if she loves you, he'll end up hating both of you but if she loves him he'll drag her down with her, making you miserable either way, eh?"

"She was the one who made me promise, John!" Mycroft snapped. "She made me _promise_ her that I could never let him get hurt. She was the one who told me to take care of him. She's the only reason why he and I even speak anymore. For God's sake, John, he'd be _dead_ years ago if she didn't make me keep that promise!" He bit his lower lip. "If he's happy with her then he's not hurt but if I'm happy with her and he's not…" He swallowed hard. "Well…she and I would both feel guilty now wouldn't we."

"Mycroft…I."

"Sometimes, John Watson," Mycroft rose from his seat and walked towards the door. "You have to let the person you love, perhaps even more than yourself, be happy with someone else if they're happy just because, deep down inside of us all, we're just like that damned brilliant woman. We're all fueled by guilt and regret and, if somehow you selfishly make that person feel pain, I don't think you could stand yourself for very long." He slammed the door to the flat behind him and trotted downstairs to where Mrs. Hudson had Charlotte's bags. He picked a few up at a time and brought them to the third floor landing and placed them beside the door. He looked back at the door and bitterly huffed to himself; perhaps, some promises were worth breaking in the end.

* * *

><p>John was sitting, alone in the flat once again and stared at the patch of wall where a smiley face once resided. Sherlock had covered it up with new paper and filled in the holes around it upon Charlotte's arrival. Without much warning, John began to bitterly sob. He hated her. He couldn't help but hate her. He hated her just as Mycroft hated Sherlock. She had taken, by no fault of her own, his only true reason for living anymore. He hated how she changed him and, more than anything, he was scared how sudden the changes had come. He knew that he could never do that to ease the never-ending torture that was the life of Sherlock Holmes.<p>

"Bloody hell," He said, leaping to his feet and opening the flat door. He dragged, in spite, all of Charlotte's bags into his living room and slammed the door behind him. He took out his phone and punched in a few numbers. "Sarah? It's John. Look…can I come over for a bit? N…no I'm not upset just...I miss you that's' all. Brilliant, I'll see you then." He hung up.

See? He thought to himself. I don't need any damned sociopath and his little china doll to keep me company. I can be happy without him. Without either of them. I am Doctor John H. Watson. I saw the battlefield. I saw thousands die and saved countless others. I deserve to be happy just as much as anyone else in this world. Probably even more.

No matter how many times he tried to reassure himself, he arrived to Sarah's flat a few minutes later and fell into her arms, a sobbing mess. He had lie about why he was so emotional. He blamed the anniversary of his father's death (one not due to come for several months).To the best of his knowledge, it worked and she welcomed him in. He didn't know what had happened on that walk in the snow with Charlotte or God knows what they did for the next few hours but, eventually, John did return home, his composure (somewhat) and his determination restored. It was around eleven thirty and wasn't surprised to see the two awake.

"Have fun at Sarah's?" Sherlock asked without interest. John androgynously grunted and started up the stairs. He turned his light off and then heard, his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach, Charlotte and Sherlock giggle as they both made their way into Sherlock's room. From his window he could see the light switch from on to off. He felt quite ill to himself and squeezed his eyes shut, promising himself that it was just a dream, the whole thing. Charlotte was just a nightmare and he would wake up to the gentle warmth of sunlight on his face the next morning.

He was awoken the next day but not in the way he'd much expect. He felt his bedspring mattress shift under him and heard a rustle in the dark. He looked up at the clock. It was 12:05.

"John." A grunt in the dark rang out. "Move over." Sherlock said as he tried to wedge his body next to John's on the small, twin mattress. Before John could open his mouth, Sherlock started again. "I can't sleep on the sofa; I'm too long for it." Silence. "Oh _shut up_! I'm too tall, you bloody idiot now stop hogging the blanket and give me some. It's freezing!"

"Sherlock." John sighed, disoriented and tired yet still completely aware that he had never been happier in his entire life. "Why are you in my bed?"

"I told you, John." Sherlock turned to his side. "The couch isn't my best friend at the moment and, ironically enough, you are."

"No," John started to speak slower and more deliberately. "I meant why aren't you in your _own_ bed. You know…like you are every other night?"

Sherlock hesitated to answer. "Well…There's a woman in my bed!"

"_And_.._?_" John urged on, covering his utter jubilation with a strained tone of annoyance.

"John, you thought…" Sherlock paused. "She and I…" His nose twitched. "We would…"

"_Yes_." John said simply. A few moments of confounded silence followed.

"You're an idiot." Sherlock said twisting his neck around so he was facing John. "She and I don't…did you really think?"

"Well, in the _normal_ world, Sherlock," John huffed. "When a man and woman are in love they…"

"What are you talking about! _Love_. Ha. A fairytale." Sherlock turned his head away to hide the look of anguish on his face. "She and I aren't _in love_, John." John propped himself up a bit and looked on to Sherlock.

"Well then, what _are_ you then?" Sherlock, for once, was at a loss.

"Well…" He propped himself up, the same as John, still towering over him despite both of them reclining. "I…" He did not know how to answer.

"So, you've _never_ been in love, eh?" John scratched the stubble growing in on his face. "Then…" He dreaded this question. "Are you a virgin, eh? Would it be _logical_ to sleep with someone if you weren't in love with them but you loved another woman…"

"_John..." _Sherlock stared into his bedmate's eyes. _"Shut. Up." _Of course, John didn't.

"So you _are_ a virgin then, eh?" He almost felt pity for him. "You've been so obsessed with this one woman your entire life that you can't even imagine any other human being _that_ close with you."

"JOHN. SHUT UP. NOW. DO SHUT UP." Sherlock was fuming. "Would it make you _happy_ if I went down there and violated that poor woman for your own reassurance of my sexual encounter? Do you enjoy the thought of it? Do you want me to prove to you that, like you, I simply let relative _strangers_ see me at my most vulnerable, hrm? John I…" Sherlock caught himself and proceeded to calm down. "I'm sorry…"

John sank down to his pillow and faced away from Sherlock. "Bullshit."

"No. Really." Sherlock got out of bed and crouched down next to John's face. "That was…stupid and irrational and I don't know why I did…"

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John said, closing his eyes.

"John, I…"

"I said _goodnight, Sherlock._"

Sherlock was ashamed. He blindly stumbled down the dark staircase into the kitchen on the first floor and then to the uncomfortable well worn couch in the living room. He glanced at the door and bit his lip, trying to hold back his tears as he looked away. He heard a door creak and his heart leapt, thinking that it was John coming to settle him down. He was so good at doing that. However, it was Charlotte who stood next to the sofa and peered down over her dear old friend. Without a noise, she pushed him to sit up and hung on him as he wept a few silent tears. She didn't need to know the reason for them but she knew she needed to stop them. She grabbed his hand and led him towards his own bedroom. They both lay down on his bed and she looked at him, hiding beneath the covers and sighed.

He clung to her, just would a child to his mother and shook, core to limbs. Charlotte stroked his dark curls and just lay there for a little while; nothing really needed to be said. She wiped away her dear friend's tears and let him hold her close, as close as he needed her to be. Before drifting off in to a peaceful slumber, she looked at his scared grey eyes shining in the darkness and sighed. She was tired and soon left Sherlock for a land of peace and calm. He now felt very alone and held her still, hoping her presence would bring ease to his dreams. This was no ordinary relationship; this was something much deeper than most people cared to venture. This was Sherlock's last thought before he finally found his way to sleep that night. Charlotte was his security, his pacifier, his calm. He needed her just as he needed John, still the only man who could be and break his heart at the very same time.


End file.
